


Nothing endures but change

by That_proves_nothing



Category: Emmerdale
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-10-10 02:54:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10427550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/That_proves_nothing/pseuds/That_proves_nothing
Summary: "Aaron’s skin is paper thin, sliced thinner by each new tragedy. Everything leaves a mark, everything bruises."Coming home is a process.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written before the Rebecca-Robert disaster.

Aaron’s skin is paper thin, sliced thinner by each new tragedy. Everything leaves a mark, everything bruises. 

Robert has learnt to take a back-stand, spectator role, keeps quiet as Aaron stands in the kitchen, opening every cabinet door until he finds where the cups are. Remains in his place, as Aaron goes through the same ordeal with the tea, and the sugar, and the spoons, pretends to be looking down at his phone as Aaron picks up the overflowing cup, steaming brew spilling over the rim onto his palm, watches Aaron tacitly as he curses while running cold water over his reddening flash.

Robert knows, the process of coming home is about re-calibration.

*

Aaron says, “sometimes I wake up, and I forget where I am.”  He blinks twice against their bedroom ceiling, as if demonstrating. Sometimes Robert will notice him shading his eyes, as if it’s it too bright, gaping them open, as if it’s too dark. Robert realises adjustment takes time. They have it. 

“Understandable,” says Robert, stretching his mouth into a smile that is a little less than genuine. “it’s hard to believe you get to wake up next to someone like me.”

Aaron scoffs, It’s a joke that hits a little too close to home. “Yeah, “ he says, “between your kicking and over inflated ego there’s hardly room left on the bed.”

Even sharing a space is a process of reevaluating distances.

*

It hasn’t been easy for either of them, but while for Aaron life was constantly changing, for Robert, Aaron is the change. 

It’s not like you could just plain come out and say, ‘I have to get used to my husband again.’ Robert had his reactions pre-written to him by others.

Aaron pushes into him, a little too rough, a little too quick, like if he slows down, if he deliberates his moves, he’ll start to disintegrate.

Robert says, “as long as we have  _ this, _ we’re good.”

Aaron smirks, he thinks Robert’s speaking about orgasms,  _ you’ve got a one track mind.  _ And he does. But he also means  _ this _ : it’s mirroring Aaron’s breaths until theirs are synchronized, leading each other to calmness. It’s Robert rubbing away the stress from Aaron’s sinewy back until the muscles there relax under his hands. It’s Aaron wiping sweat from Robert’s brow with the pad of his thumb, it’s Robert’s clinging to the heat emanating from Aaron’s body, like he’ll freeze otherwise.

They’ve got this part figured out.

*

Between he and himself, he at least he recognises this process is a two sided street.

Aaron dangles his feet over the side of the bed, Robert could recite the next routine in his sleep. The pull of one shoulder then the next, the roll of the neck, the stretching of the toes, the deep inhale, and the long exhale. He thinks Aaron picked it up inside. Robert’s mind playing the awful scenarios this must have been in preparation to.

Aaron says, “I think I’m gonna stay later at the scrapyard, need to pick up my slack at that place.”

Robert has to stop himself from asking _when_ _are you coming back?_ mentally pulling himself back. And maybe that’s as ominous sign as any.

He’s watching the steam rises from the shower as it pulls a white blanket over the mirror, making everything a little stuffy and suffocating, like a cotton ball stuck down your throat.

Robert swallows down the obstruction audibly.

Aaron stops the water, maybe sensing something. He looks at Robert through the foggy glass. “I’ll make it in time for dinner.” He says unprompted.

Robert should have probably given Aaron more credit to have figured this out, this tight schedule he’s been trying to keep for them.

He read somewhere, that the secret for this process is to move in between the immovables. Like eating the same breakfast at the same time, like dropping Liv off at the same spot before school, like setting exact working hours, like going to bed together.

Sometimes it feels like draining the sea with a pale, like measuring your steps before an unending road.

Aaron smiles before turning the knob. Sometimes the process is about closing gaps.

*

There’s a baggage full of nightmares Aaron keeps unpacked, carrying it each day as he exits, every evening as he returns, dropping it by the entrance as it comes in. The spillover creeping into their bedroom at night. Sometime Robert will stay up, watching pain and fear marring Aaron’s face, like a mask that has been forced on him, distorting his features, will try to hug away the battle that seems to be going in Aaron’s mind.

Sometimes it works, sometimes Aaron will wake up, look of terror in his eyes, like sleep has been robbing years from his life.

He’ll say, “I’m home,” as a way of reassurance. 

And Robert will nod, even though he knows Aaron has still hasn’t completed his journey here.

Knows that the process is as much about re-learning the basics as anything else. Teaching the body to allow sleep to take over, completely and without reservation, trusting it to wake up.   

*

He’s not blind, he’s sees it all. The way Aaron tiptoes down the corridor, throws away his clothes to the basket as soon as he takes them off, never leaves his unwashed dishes in the sink. 

He’s been living in his house as a guest.

And that’s especially brutal, considering how everything in the Mill is Aaron centered. How the furniture was chosen to his measurements and tastes, positioned in a way the mimics his daily routine.  How Robert and Liv have been following his lead, like shadows, like echoes, like an answer to a rhetorical question. How life has come to a near halt ticking away at Aaron’s pace.    

Robert says, “I can’t believe I’m missing stumbling over your shoes.”

And Aaron, as he’s about to lay his on the shoe reck, pauses, and drops them by his feet. “Can’t rob you of your fun.”

Humour is, sometimes, the closest they get to honesty.

*

He doesn’t come often to the scrapyard, he figures they both need the space to extend tightened limbs, to let the self room to expend. He still gets reports from Adam, sometimes directly, sometimes through Vic, whether he’d asked for them or not.

He knows Aaron still hasn’t set foot at the portacabin, the paperwork offers little in the way of distraction. Instead,he immerses himself completely in the strenuous work of dissecting metal. Hours and hours of pulling parts out of parts, piling and sifting through materials. Robert knows he doesn’t stop to eat or rest unless Adam physically pulls him away.

Robert notices how Aaron gets stronger while somehow simultaneously getting weaker. Exerting himself to prove a point to his body, or to his mind, Robert’s not sure.

Robert has been faking strength all along, a weakening procedure in and of itself. He knows better- knows that  process is about succumbing to the weakness, embracing it, sharing it, fine tuning the balance of leaning on each other. A reevaluation of weight.

*

He practices patience with same diligence he imagines other practice success. Picturing end goals, and numbering the steps, and estimating their period, checking timetables and rewards. 

Some days are more difficult than others.

He is a man of action, can’t help but look for a button to push at, a switch to lift, a handle to pull at, something to break this thing open, unfold the unending layers, expose the light at the end of the tunnel.

“I have this recurring dream,” Aaron says, “where I return to a welcome home party,” the darkness of the room spills over the nooks and crannies of the their bodies, pools at the folds of their blanket, and Robert listens so attentively trying to hear the words behind words, the hidden message of heartbeats and breaths, “except it's not for me. Or,” he looks at Roberts, a beam of moonlight shines his eyes with a plea for comprehension, “it is for me, but I am not myself. I look at the mirror and I am faceless.”

And Robert is speechless, kisses Aaron's lids the affirm the presence of the eyes that are behind them, then the nose and the mouth, the cheeks and the chin.

“You’re exactly how I want you,” he finally says, “you’re exactly how you should be.”

Aaron leads Robert’s hand to his cock. Hardening. “I need..” he stops and Robert gets it

Aaron is shaking in Robert’s arms. He is trembling, but encourages Robert to keep his pace when he attempts to slow down.

Robert sees it - the disintegration, but also Aaron’s complete trust that he’ll know to put the pieces back together.

*

And maybe, from now on, it’s about keeping the semblance of normalcy. 

Standing in the kitchen preparing pasta like the world didn’t collapse around them last night. Like they didn’t have to wade their way through morning, refilling their lungs with much needed air, redirecting their eyes at the sun and hoping to not come out blind.

Aaron reaches for the plate and Robert miscalculates Aaron’s grasp before releasing his. It drops and shatters on the floor, the crash reverberating through his spine. There’s a look of mild horror on Aaron’s face, the spaghetti look like worms who are about to escape their hole, scatter across the kitchen.

Robert rushes to clean it up, but Aaron stops him. “Leave it!”

The horror is suddenly broken with a bark of laughter, Aaron all but collapses on the floor with the surge of it, getting louder and more hysterical. And Robert, at first awestruck, indulges in it, lets the echoes of it tickles at his toes.

The Pasta suddenly looks like flowers, like blossom, like rejuvenation. Realisation falls like petals from a cherry tree, softly and beautifully- it was never a process to begin with. It’s an horizon-less walk, that erodes their soles of their feet, the sun colouring their skin, the elements deforming.  _ no. not deforming _ . _sculpting_ their bodies in relation to each other, fitting them better together. It’s a matter of perseverance, and malleability.  

Something in Robert’s shifts allowing for an Aaron shaped gap, knowing it won’t stay empty for long.                

  
  
  


  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I wrote it before ED went ape-shit. I wasn't sure whether or not to publish it. It was a bit rushed to begin with, plus I was sort of at odds with ED. Finally I decided since it's already written to just go for it.


End file.
